


Passing the Ball

by pied_pollo



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e23 No Way Out II, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rated S for Spoilers, except for Gideon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24257134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: "My team? Let me tell you about my team."
Comments: 25
Kudos: 149





	Passing the Ball

**_Agent Morgan fought to protect his identity from the very people that could save him. Why?_ **

In the bullpen, Derek Morgan tosses a baseball from hand to hand, thinking about trust, and how his friends are hurt. Would anyone have known about Carl Buford if not for Morgan’s arrest? He doesn’t know.

The week after Chicago was awkward. His colleagues’ stares burned a hole in his back, the tension thick even after the question was asked.

The question.

His mother had whispered it, when she hugged him before he left: “Why didn’t you tell me?” Hotch had asked him the same thing on the jet. Prentiss when they were waiting for coffee. JJ over the phone, late at night. Gideon didn’t pry, and neither did Reid, but the latter stared at Morgan in the bullpen, trying, perhaps, to understand what it was about himself that kept Morgan from confiding in him.

_Why didn’t you tell us?_

It felt like an accusation.

Why didn’t he tell anyone? They were his team, his second family. But then again, Morgan hadn’t even told his mother before all this. And after Buford’s arrest, it still felt wrong to come clean about his past. He had worked so hard to hide this part of his life from the rest of the world, a world that turned him from Derek into Morgan.

_Morgan_ is not the same person as _Derek_. _Derek_ is a soft-spoken boy who doesn’t understand men because his father died when he was too young to know what being a man meant (and the father figure he had afterwards wasn’t actually a man at all). _Morgan_ is a confident man who kicks down doors and winks at the ladies. He talks about tragedy with a flashy smile, snarky wit, and hefty pats on shoulders. Kurt Vonnegut said that you are who you pretend to be; Morgan is a man of love, a man who has sex with life and makes sure his friends aren’t hurt like Derek had been.

But they _were_ hurt, his friends. Hurt that he didn’t believe that they could understand. Morgan’s team studied and psychoanalyzed people in order to bring the bad guys to justice, but Morgan allowed them so little of his past that there wasn’t much to profile. Until now. 

That was fine, though. Maybe it was okay to be Derek once in a while.

**_Because trust has to be earned, and there are very few people he truly trusts._ **

Reid is standing idly by his desk with a cup of coffee in one hand. Morgan watches his gaze shift: from JJ taking folders off his desk, to the bathroom, to the bag tucked under his chair, to the puncture wounds in the crook of his elbow that he thinks no one can see. One day, Reid will need someone to pull him out of the hole he’s digging. Morgan will be there, and afterwards there will be no more secrets between them.

The baseball sails across the bullpen in a high arc. 

Reid catches it with his free hand.

Trust.

* * *

**_Reid’s intellect is a shield which protects him from his emotions._ **

Doctor Spencer Reid is not weak, because he can’t afford to be.

55-70% of people in America will experience a traumatic event in their lives. However, only 7-8% of people will suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 50% of _those_ people will struggle with substance abuse.

Spencer takes the dilaudid whenever possible and the process is 16 minutes long. It takes 5 minutes to sit on the toilet seat and stare at the needle in his hands. 4 minutes to tie the tourniquet around his arm with shaky hands. 3 minutes to fill the syringe with poison and get out any air bubbles. He gets faster, sloppier. 2 minutes to locate a vein. One minute to stick the needle in. Thirty seconds to decide if this is how he wants to live his life. Fifteen seconds to wonder if his mother ever gave in to drugs, and if so, is this actually a sign that he’s going crazy, too? Four seconds where he feels guilty, and lonely, and pitiful, but then--

But then Spencer will jam the plunger, and the numbers don’t matter anymore.

When he’s high, he reminds himself that he needs it. Dilaudid is a painkiller, and he is in pain.

But when he comes down, Spencer realizes he can’t go on like this. It is only a matter of time before the dilaudid stops working as good as it currently does. It is only a matter of time before it starts to dissolve his personality, his mind, his friendships. It is only a matter of time before he messes up, and loses his job--or his life.

It is only a matter of time before Tobias Hankel buries him for good.

From across the room, Spencer can see Morgan watching him. Both men know what it’s like to have a secret, but Morgan overcame his trauma. Can Spencer afford to let the truth out like Morgan did?

No.

He needs to. He wants to. 

But he can’t, because Doctor Spencer Reid is an asset to a team forced to look the other way so they don’t lose him and his genius.

Doctor Spencer Reid is a genius making stupid choices.

Doctor Spencer Reid is making stupid choices because he’s weak.

He feels utterly lost. He wants to escape. He wishes he were somewhere else, some _one_ else. He doesn’t want to be important, or tired, or weak, he just wants--

“Hey, Pretty Boy!”

Suddenly a baseball flies through the air, and Spencer catches it with one hand. He looks up at Morgan, laughs in surprise, and Morgan joins in. This completely, utterly _good_ feeling is better than any high ever experienced, and the thought makes Spencer laugh more. He hears JJ laughing as she bounces up the stairs. Prentiss comes over to see the commotion, and tries to grab Spencer’s coffee before it spills--too late; it splatters onto the floor, but no one cares, because the four of them are indulging in a second of uncharacteristically childish merriment.

**_And at the moment, his shield is under repair._ **

Spencer rolls the ball over to Prentiss. He cleans the coffee from the floor. On his knees, he spots his bag, and reaches for what he knows is inside, but retracts his hand. He stands up, dusts himself off, and bathes blissfully in the warmth of the moment. He remembers how much he loves this warmth. It's a craving that no amount of drugs will ever be able to fix.

Doctor Spencer Reid can’t always have these moments.

Doctor Spencer Reid can’t stop his addiction with a snap of his fingers.

But that’s human, and genius doesn’t take away humanity. Genius doesn’t mean facing life alone.

Doctor Spencer Reid is a genius who is an asset to a team that can't afford to lose their friend.

They would want him to try. Spencer decides to try. 

Doctor Spencer Reid is not weak. Except for the times that he is, but that’s okay, because he has his family to help him, and that is stronger than anything.

* * *

**_Prentiss overcompensates because she doesn’t yet feel she is part of the team._ **

Emily follows JJ up the stairs, fidgeting with the baseball in her hand and feeling nostalgic.

It’s been a year since she’s joined the BAU, and a lifetime since she last spoke to Ian Doyle, yet she feels as if she belonged more with the latter. Was it a mistake, doing this?

She doesn’t know if the team trusts her, if they want her with them.

At least Ian was always happy to see her.

She catches them looking at her sometimes, the team. After they’ve talked about an old case, there’s a split second of awkward silence before someone has to explain to Emily what had happened.

She knows that one day, she will have to tell them what happened to _her_. Will they understand? Or is it like Emily’s own messed-up inside joke, where you had to have been there to get it? It’s hard to decide when she’s ready for them to understand. It’s even harder to figure out whether or not she _wants_ them to understand.

Emily makes a lot of decisions. Most of them are bad.

“ _How come none of this gets to you?_ ” JJ had asked her when they stood in Tobias Hankel’s house. “ _Y_ _ou came off a desk job. Now, suddenly, you’re in the field surrounded by mutilated bodies, and you don’t even flinch._ ”

Emily wanted to say: Because I didn’t have a desk job.

She wanted to say: Because I’ve seen mutilated bodies. I’ve _staged_ mutilated bodies.

She wanted to say: Because one of us has to be strong.

She wanted to say: Because I’ve learned flinching gets you killed.

Instead, she said: “ _I guess I compartmentalize better than most people._ ”

Now, Emily’s walking with JJ, who doesn’t have to hide her feelings in order to save her life. JJ, who smiles at little things like Reid’s laughter and Garcia’s glittery shoes. JJ, who’s been on her phone a lot more often than usual and seems happier these days because of it. JJ, who’s currently talking about something Emily was not paying attention to.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Emily asks.

“I asked if you wanted to come over after work,” JJ replies. “Garcia and I are having a little ladies’ night--wine, movies, that sort of thing. Are you free?”

Emily is free. She wants to go. But she also doesn’t want to barge in on their plans.

“It’s not a problem, really,” JJ adds, as if she can read her mind. “I want you to come.”

“I actually had a little more work to do,” Emily lies, “so you can have fun without me.”

JJ looks disappointed, but nods. “The offer is still on the table if you change your mind,” she says softly, turning towards her office.

**_She needn’t worry._ **

Emily rolls the baseball between her palms, and suddenly, the words slip out of her mouth--

“JJ, wait!”

JJ turns around, grinning. Her happiness is contagious.

“Actually,” Emily says slowly, “that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“We’ll see you there, then,” JJ chirps. She plucks the baseball from Emily’s hands and walks back into her office, where a stack of files waits expectantly.

Emily makes a lot of decisions. It’s time she started making good ones.

* * *

**_Every day, Agent Jareau fields dozens of requests for our team._ **

JJ watches Emily leave and bounces the baseball a couple times on her desk. With a heavy sigh, she sits down and frowns at the growing stack of files on her desk. She takes the top one, opens it, and her good mood vanishes as she burrows deeper and deeper into the pile.

_Suspected domestic murder of mid-40s woman. COD exsanguination. APB out for husband._

_Mass shooting in mall. Suspected terrorist activity. Suspect DOA en route to hospital._

_Possible serial rapist/murderer. 4 victims. Vocal cords cut out, bodies posed._

_Suspicious fires in churches._

She separates these cases into piles and pauses to run a hand through her hair. The list gets worse.

_Missing: Daniel Henson (8). Same abduction site as Patty Lowe (6) last week._

_Couple murdered in home. COD exsanguination. Knife found at scene._

_Suspicious drownings of 3 men._

_Kayla Diaz. COD asphyxiation. Evidence of sexual assault. DNA inconclusive. Boyfriend in custody._

_Suicides in 4 homes within 5 miles of each other._

JJ puts her head in her hand and twists the pendant of Rosaline’s necklace between her fingers. The files are easy to go through. She’s grown fairly accustomed to seeing the bodies, marking the reports. She doesn’t cry anymore when she reads about a child being brutally stabbed or a mother who was raped by her son. The detachment is good for the job, but JJ hates it.

It isn’t difficult to send a folder back to its lieutenant. What _is_ difficult is seeing the same lieutenant on the news because there was another murder that could have been prevented had she accepted the file. What _is_ difficult is watching the missing child turn up dead a week after she declined his file. What _is_ difficult is watching the news and doing nothing about the rape that occured because it isn’t qualifyable for FBI intervention.

The fear of making a mistake is always there. JJ is a young woman with a lot of responsibility, and sometimes the choices she makes scare her. It seems that so many things scare her nowadays.

Being an adult makes her scared.

Being a flawed adult makes her scared.

Being a flawed adult with the power to choose who to help makes her scared.

Sometimes she only picks one case out of seven, and it makes her scared.

The phone rings.

JJ is no longer scared.

**_And every night, she goes home hoping she’s made the right choices._ **

At first, JJ was surprised when her phone rang and she picked it up to discover that Detective LaMontagne had kept her number. But now, late-night calls from Will have become a nightly occurrence. They usually talk about work, because that’s all their lives are about right now. But later, they’ll go off topic and discuss other things: sports, friends, family. Anything; it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Will calls JJ at night because he knows that’s when she’s alone in the dark and he’s trying to make things lighter for her. It works.

Tonight, Will says that he loves her for the first time.

When JJ hangs up, she leans back in her chair for a moment and closes her eyes, feeling giddy. She puts her hands on the desk and accidentally knocks the baseball off the edge. It bounces and rolls to a stop in the hallway, where Garcia scoops it off the floor and waves as she walks by.

JJ waves back, then refocuses on the papers in front of her. She takes a deep breath, smiles, and continues to flip through the darkness.

The requests are finished quickly. JJ goes faster than usual, because her friends are waiting outside the door, and there’s a man out there who loves her, and suddenly tonight isn’t lonely anymore.

* * *

**_Garcia fills her office with figurines and color._ **

Penelope has a love-hate relationship with elevators.

She stands by the doors whenever a case is done, tapping her shoes and watching the time go by. This waiting--waiting for the doors to open, waiting for her family to come home--is the worst part of her job.

Most of the time, when all is well, the elevator doors open and the team comes bouncing out, joking quietly and making plans. They’ll give each other pats on the back and tired smiles. Penelope will hug her Chocolate Thunder, wrap her arms around JJ’s shoulders, and feel the happiest she’s felt in days. This is what usually happens.

But sometimes, when the doors open, Penelope is greeted with silence. One by one, the team will walk into the bullpen, looking defeated. Sometimes, when the doors open, her Chocolate Thunder will hang his head, JJ will grip his hand tightly, and Penelope will feel her heart break.

On the worst days, Gideon asks her for a photo.

That is what happened tonight.

Penelope sits down at her desk and types _Rebecca Bryant, née Garner_ into a search engine. Only one photo comes up, and Garcia clicks _Print_. She sighs and puts her head on the desk. Dead girlfriends, UNSUBS, brutal murders--only the cutest of baby panda pictures can lift her spirits now.

There’s a knock on the door. “Garcia?”

Spirits lifted. And Derek Morgan is even better than a baby panda.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Penelope exclaims, springing out of her chair and grabbing his arms. “My prayers have been answered. Thank you, God, for blessing me with the handsome face of my dearest friend!”

Morgan chuckles. It is music to her ears. “What miracles have you been working tonight, angel?”

Penelope sobers. “I have to print a photo for Gideon,” she explains, plopping back down in her chair.

Morgan nods understandingly and rubs his hand on her shoulder. There’s a moment of silence, then Penelope adds miserably: “I hate today.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Morgan tuts, spinning her around in the chair so she’s facing him. “Don’t go all depressed on me. Where’s my beam of sunshine, hm? Everyone’s okay, and the situation got resolved as best as it could be. You know that.”

“I know,” Penelope sighs, “but I hate it when my friends are sad.”

“I get it, Baby Girl, I get it. So what can I do for you?”

“Not much,” Penelope laments, grabbing the photo of Rebecca Bryant from the printer and cutting it out with scissors. “It’s just been a floppy year.”

“Yeah, it has,” Morgan squeezes the back of her chair and turns to leave. “Well then, I’m heading home. JJ said you all are having a little ‘girl time’ tonight, so I won’t keep her waiting. ‘Night, Penelope,” he adds, blowing her a kiss.

Penelope pretends to catch it and presses her hand to her heart. “Goodnight, my sweet,” she replies, before looking back down at the photo on the desk. Rebecca is grinning, eyes squinted with happiness. Penelope gets up to deliver the photo.

**_To remind herself to smile as the horror fills her screens._ **

On the way to Gideon’s office, Penelope goes through a roller coaster of feelings.

She sees a baseball rolling out of JJ’s office, so she bends down to pick it up and waves. This makes her happy.

She sees Hotch walking out of Strauss's office, his brow furrowed. This makes her worried.

She sees Emily twirling a pen between her fingers and tapping her foot. This makes her curious.

She sees Reid talking excitedly to an agent--who promptly pulls out her phone and ignores him. This makes her sad.

Happy, worried, curious, sad--geez. There aren’t enough sparkly glasses in the world able to convey the spectrum of emotions Penelope feels on a daily basis.

She arrives at Gideon’s office and knocks on the door. “Sir?”

“Come in,” says the muffled reply.

In the dimly lit room, Gideon is at his desk, a pen in one hand, his notebook open on the cluttered desktop. Wordlessly, Penelope hands him the photograph and sets the baseball on the edge of the table.

“Thank you, Garcia,” Gideon murmurs, giving her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Have a good night, sir,” Penelope whispers, and leaves the room.

As she makes her way down the stairs, Penelope lets out a sad exhale. She wallows in Gideon’s misery as she trudges towards the elevator, and stands there feeling blue until the _click-clack_ of JJ’s heels announce her arrival.

“Who’s ready for some lady bonding time?” she sings, dragging Emily into view.

“Ugh, _please_ ,” Penelope wails, grabbing their hands, “get me _out_ of this place! I am _sick_ of the somber, icky feelings today!”

“Then let’s go fix it with wine and movies,” JJ chuckles, stepping into the elevator. “Emily’s tagging along.”

“That is _such_ a plan.”

The elevator doors close. All is well.

* * *

**_And Agent Gideon in many ways is damned by his profound knowledge of others._ **

Jason is very good at predicting the future. It’s been his job for decades.

He knows that tonight, Garcia will go home with JJ and Emily, feeling young and happy.

He knows that tonight, Hotch will go home to a son who’s still oblivious to the horrors of the world and a wife who feels abandoned.

He knows that tonight, Morgan will call his mother before turning on the TV.

He knows that tonight, Reid will sit in the dark for hours, holding a needle to his skin and asking himself if it's worth it.

He knows that tonight, he will go home to an empty house, and not turn on the lights, and think of Sarah.

Jason doesn’t know what will happen next. 

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t finish the paperwork on his desk. Instead, he leans back in his chair and flips through the photos in his notebook. He thinks about that once upon a time, when things felt right and he was in love.

That once upon a time, when he kept his promises and brought children home to their parents.

That once upon a time, when he still believed that good would always prevail over evil, even when it feels like all hope is lost and the darkness is swallowing him whole.

But now the story is coming to an end. Jason can feel his goodness slipping away. He can feel the last of his laughter, his understanding, his caring, leaving him. He can’t remember the last time he felt truly happy. Maybe it was a lifetime ago, in a land far away, where he held people close and ate dinner with friends like nothing bad would happen.

Was that where he went wrong? Did he just get too close? Or was he not close enough?

Maybe it doesn’t matter either way.

The baseball falls off the desk and rolls to a slow, sad stop.

Later, in the empty house with the lights turned off, Jason knows what will happen next.

**_Which is why he shares so little of himself._ **

_I said at the beginning of this letter that I knew it would be you to come up here. I’m so sorry the explanation couldn’t be better, Spencer. And I’m so sorry it doesn’t make more sense, but I’ve already told you, I just don’t understand it anymore. I’m sorry._

_I guess I’m just looking for it again: for the belief I had back in college. The belief I had when I first met Sarah, and it all seemed so right. The belief in happy endings._

**_Yet he pours his heart into every case we handle._ **

The darkness swallows him whole.

* * *

**_I stand by my actions, and I stand by my team._ **

It’s safe to say that Aaron Hotchner and his team have had a difficult year. 

Which is why Hotch is currently indulging in a nice bit of scotch in the comfort of his car, which is perched in the driveway of his home. He takes small sips from the squat glass and prepares himself to go inside.

It’s a routine: every night, before entering the house, Hotch will sit in the car and engage in what Haley calls _collecting himself_ . It’s a compartmentalization technique--a moment of reflection, a moment to comb through whatever needed to separate work from home. It’s his transformation from _Agent Hotchner_ to _Aaron_.

At the end of the day, he left work later than everybody else, as per usual. But this time, he wasn’t alone. There was a faint rustling from the office down the hall, where Gideon was sifting through files. Hotch knocked on the door to get his attention. “Heading home tonight?”

“In a minute,” was the soft reply.

“I’ll wait, then,” Hotch murmured, leaning against the door frame with his hands tucked in his pockets.

Gideon gave a halfhearted smile and looked over to the framed photos behind his desk. “Do you ever think it’s enough?”

“Sir?”

“All we do,” Gideon went on, his voice low, “night and day, we catch the bad guys, stare into the abyss. Yet crime continues.”

“It always will,” Hotch said carefully, “but I like to think that helping one person makes all the difference.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Gideon murmured wistfully.

Something was off. “Is everything alright? You seem...on edge, Jason,” Hotch bent down to pick up a baseball off the floor and held it out.

Gideon waved his hand, telling him to keep it. “I think that’s Morgan’s. Garcia must’ve put it on my desk.”

“Not to seem pushy, but you’ve changed the subject.”

“Does Jack know what you do, Aaron?”

“Sorry?”

“Jack,” Gideon grabbed a picture frame and spun it between his fingers. “Does he know what his dad does every day?”

“He knows his dad catches bad guys and keeps people safe.”

Gideon smiled sadly. He got out of his chair without turning off the lamp and exited the room, patting Hotch on the back. “You’re a good father, Aaron,” he called as he walked down the hallway. “Don’t let the job kill that part of you.”

Hotch was left alone in the dimly lit office. He turned off the lamp and closed the door.

Now, he sits in the car, tipping back the last of the alcohol into his mouth and rolling Morgan’s baseball on the dashboard. The kitchen light comes on in his house. Inside, he knows that Jack is asleep on the couch, trying and failing to wait up for his dad. Haley is probably sitting at the counter, nursing her own drink.

_Don’t let the job kill that part of you._

Will it? Will there come a day when Hotch comes home and brings work with him? Will there come a day when his son no longer looks forward to his arrival?

Hotch isn’t a nervous man. But the thought of losing his family to his work drills fear into his heart. And what scares him more is the little voice in the darkest corners of his mind that says he’d be okay with that happening.

How much longer, it asks, will it take for him to let go of what he has?

How much longer can he stare into the abyss?

Hotch asks himself that question a lot.

 _He knows his dad catches bad guys and keeps people safe_.

There will come a day when Jack learns the rest. Hotch knows that sooner or later, he will have to explain what else Dad does when he goes on work trips. How much will he say? Is there a manual for that sort of conversation?

 _How to Tell Your Son About Murder. How to Explain Rape to Your Kid. How to Protect Your Child but Still Let Him Know About the Woman Whose Tongue Was Cut Out and Stuffed in a Box._ Not exactly best-sellers.

But then again, Jack is a toddler. Hotch can protect him for a little while longer.

**_And if you think you can find a better person for the job, good luck._ **

Hotch leaves the baseball in the car and gets out. Right now, the members of his team are coming home to their lives, too. Some go to empty apartments. Others, like him, open the door, creep across the threshold, stop by their sleeping children, and marvel at their innocence. 

It’s such a queer concept, innocence. How strange that such a thing exists in this damaging world. It’s almost unbelievable, but here it is, breathing softly on the kitchen couch. Here it is, reminding Aaron that he's home.

**Author's Note:**

> Do baseballs bounce? Probably not, but I wrote it anyway.
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> Also, hello! I'm new to Ao3 and fanfiction, so any feedback or advice for this site is greatly appreciated. Have a nice day!


End file.
